


A Very Long Engagement

by diaghileafs



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/pseuds/diaghileafs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February 1960, and it's Valentine's Day at Lime Grove. Working late in the office, Randall has some long-awaited questions for Lix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Long Engagement

She looks up from the monotonous mound of paperwork scattered around her desk and glances at her watch suspiciously; it's late and everyone should be out enjoying themselves on this most romantic of nights, or at least drinking until their heartache has been replaced with a sickening, yet not all together unpleasant, numbing of the soul.

That is exactly what Lix has in mind. She will finish her piece for Tuesday's programme (just for Hector to cut it, no doubt), drain the last of the whiskey hidden away in her cupboard to the dregs and pull out the blankets from the drawer in the corner of her office, so that she doesn't have to walk home drunk and alone to her flat where no one is waiting for her. She sighs and chides herself for the thought- hopeless.

Then, her gaze flickers to a perfectly wrapped parcel; the brown paper smooth and the edges neatly folded, and catches a glimpse of the note, which is stuck to it with a straight line of Sellotape: _Happy Valentine's Day. R x_

Hot, unexpected tears pool in her eyes, and she isn't sure whether they are out of joy or sadness; the two seemed to be so closely linked nowadays. With trepidation and a sight tremor in her hand, she carefully runs a fingernail under the seam of paper. It falls open like a case to reveal a book, an awfully familiar book titled: _Keep the Aspidistra Flying._

_Damn that man, that stupidly sentimental man._

She holds the novel to her nose and breathes deeply, taking in its scent- musky thanks to cigarettes, age and the perfume she used to wear. It causes her feel almost giddy, it causes her feel twenty-seven again; young, free and naïve.

So lost in remembrance, she does not hear the approaching footsteps and does not have time to brace herself before light illuminates the room and he is suddenly standing in the doorway.

"Don't sit in the dark."

She pays him no heed and, replacing the book back on its paper, switches off her desk lamp, "Randall," she manages finally, "what are you doing here?"

He ventures across the threshold, "I could ask you the same question."

She swears under her breath, but keeps her eyes steady on him, "you need to go home immediately."

"Why?" a simple question but one she finds herself struggling to answer.

_Because I can't spend tonight with you._

"Because I have a hell of a lot of work to finish."

There is a glint of a smirk on his face, "as do I."

 _Liar_. "I quite enjoy the place to myself on a Friday evening," she tries once more, concentrating on her work in a feeble attempt to convince him to leave her be.

He sees right through it, of course, "you won't even notice me."

_I can't be in the same room as you tonight and not wonder what you're thinking, whether you're thinking of us or not._

Perhaps that is exactly what occupies his mind because he remains- a few feet away from her desk, a hand resting on his tie- for several minutes. This bothers her an unreasonable amount; not only his presence but the fact that he is so unsure of what to say. He wouldn't have hesitated when they first met nor, come to think of it, does he normally.

"You're still here." _Why are you here at all?_ she wants to know, _why are you still here when we know what happened to our daughter? Do you enjoy witnessing my anguish every day and knowing that you are the cause of it? Do you find solace for your own failings in it?_

"Yes," he replies obviously, disappointment laced in his voice, "I must admit, I didn't expect you to be working so late."

Lix raises a surprised eyebrow and peers at him over her glasses' rim nonchalantly, "oh, why not?"

He coughs nervously, "I thought you'd be out for dinner or dancing or..." and trails off, hearing how ridiculous he sounds.

Something of a laugh resonates in her throat, "God, Randall," she scoffs, "we're hardly bright, young things anymore."

"Indeed," he speaks quietly, almost to himself, and she knows he is thinking of them: _If we really were, we'd be entwined in each other's arms and bed sheets._

"Did you like it?"

For the second time, in the space of less than ten minutes, Randall surprises her.

"What?" she recovers skilfully, pretending to yawn.

"The book," he picks up the paperback carelessly and smiles, "did you like it?"

 _No, it was a cruel joke._ "Yes, thank you, I... I haven't read it since-"

"Since Spain," he cuts in, "neither have I."

A pink flush begins to creep up her neck, so she stands and walks around the desk to stand beside him, "it's very sweet of you. I can't quite believe you-"

"Remember? Of course, I remember," he studies her features pointedly, moves a piece of paper onto the top of the pile, "I recall you lying in bed in some godawful hotel room in Granada, reading that aloud..."

"...While you cleaned my camera."

Their features soften at the memory, their hands whisper against each other.

"You wanted to be like Comstock," he continues, "you wanted to run away, sell all your possessions and live in a bedsit-"

"But you stopped me," she finishes slowly, savouring the moment.

"I had to."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I _did_ ," the inch he leans closer, the self-assuredness in his statement make her take a step back.

They're breaking down their walls and Lix doesn't want that- doesn't believe she does- because those are the only things which support her now.

_You can't have me back._

A pipe somewhere far away in the building groans, out of habit they jump and check that no one has seen them. They can't have anyone seeing them together, not in such proximity as they are.

For a second- just a split second- she thinks she can hear the rhythm of his breathing change, "I'm getting back now," her voice is small, "you know how I love to work." But she doesn't move, she is unable to.

Randall looks as equally forlorn, "do you?" he challenges meekly, "or is work a reason to forget?"

 _It hardly concerns you, does it?_ "Excuse me," _You made your bed, now you have to lie in it._

He has positioned himself at such an angle that all her possible routes of escape are blocked and he shifts as quickly as she leaches forward.

Lix bites her lip, crimson residue on her teeth, and shakes her head in aggravation, "get out of my way."

"You haven't answered my question," he stands steadfast, despite the fact that she is stepping on his feet and probably scuffing his shoes in the process.

She feels her stomach contort with anger and she digs her heel into his toes purposefully, "nor do I intend to."

The desired outcome is achieved; he winces with the sharp pain and lets her pass.

Only when she faces the haunting map on her wall and away from him, is he able to study her properly, for what is perhaps the first time in the two years they have been working together again. They had- to save their professionalism, naturally, and the knowing glances from their colleagues- managed, to a reasonable extent, to keep a clear barrier of understanding between them; they seldom speak, only out of necessity, there are no accidental meetings in the lift (she has memorised his routine and knows that he stick to it) and she has not touched him since the night they... found out Sofia had died. After that fateful evening, after he begged her to leave him in his office, after Mr Lyon was rushed into hospital, something had changed about her, something shifted in her perspective. She no longer drinks as much as she used to, spends most of her time alone and in the absence of their best journalist, had taken it upon herself to act as Foreign Correspondent and whatever stories he should have written. Randall had noticed the light dim in her eyes and he often wonders if anyone else had noticed it too. Even now, with Mr. Lyon back amongst them, and as vivacious as ever in his wheelchair, there is still far too much work to do; she has to rewrite his pieces and (as tactfully as she can) talk him through the sea of corrections- much to the poor boy's chagrin.

He hadn't wanted to add to her troubles by expressing his real feelings but now, he couldn't help it- he's grown tired of sitting idly by and watching the woman he had once known unfurl in front of him. He wants to hold her more than ever, to comfort her and pull her out of this cycle of work and despondency.

"Why can't we just have a conversation like normal people?" his words hang in the chilly air, as they have done many times before, each time he has attempted to bring up a delicate subject, and she has subsequently brushed him.

Her map is even more crowded than when he first laid eyes on it and she can recall exactly where each pin is placed, "because we aren't normal," comes the cool reply, her intonation devoid of any emotion, "this whole charade isn't _normal_."

So, as he studies her and she doesn't turn around to respond, he realises that she is more beautiful- if that's possible- than she was when he first fell in love with her; years have added an air of wisdom and mystique to her, and that is somehow more attractive to him than the bright, naïve thing from the War. Maybe it is because he's grown up, too- funny, he's rarely considered himself as old- the grey hair and crows feet may argue otherwise- but he's never thought he grow old enough to look back upon his life with a candid eye.

It is this which spurs him on to reach out, gain purchase on her shoulder and spin her round.

_You can't hide yourself away from me forever._

"Randall," she stammers, not flinching under his light grasp, "for God's sake."

"Sofia wasn't my only reason for coming back," he blurts out, courage and a kind of madness suddenly coursing through his veins.

Her eyes drop from him to the floor and then back up at his face again, "I gathered."

The words are emerging thick and fast now, barely half a second after they are formulated in his brain, do they lie on his tongue, "I wanted to see you, I couldn't carry on wondering about you, not knowing what had become of you. I wrote dozens of letters," the pace of his prattle decelerates, he swallows, "you didn't reply to a single one."

"I didn't open them."

"Why?"

She closes her eyes tightly, a quiver prominent in her tone, "I didn't want to hear what you had to say. I didn't want to change my mind." _I didn't want to fall in love with you again._

Randall allows his hand to slide down her arm and come to rest on the crook of her elbow, "I waited for you," he says simply, "you know, I thought you might have married, had a life, a loving husband."

A humourless laugh crackles in her throat, "don't be ridiculous."

His fingers curl around her forearm, "you didn't accept me."

Her eyes open and flit up to look straight into his, knocking the breath out of his lungs, "I didn't _reject_ you." _I never said no, did I? You just didn't stick around long enough._

"Is that why you never replied?" he mutters bitterly, "because you didn't want me to tie you down?"

"No."

"I wouldn't have," he insists earnestly.

 _We would have been happy._ "No, no, I know." _We could have been happy- the three of us._

"Did you ever love me?" it is barely audible.

She tilts her upper body forward in order to hear him, and when she does, tears string to her eyes, "Randall, please..."

Although he doesn't need to; he already understands, he wants to see how far he can push her until she crumbles, "or was I merely another part of you career plan?" she pulls herself back from his grasp, opens her mouth to disagree, but he doesn't give her a chance, "and don't say there weren't men before, Lix, because I _know_ , I know what you did to get where you wanted," he doesn't comprehend how malevolent he sounds until he feels her cold palm strike against his cheek and the burn it leaves in its wake.

"I did what I had to. You think I don't feel?" she exclaims hotly, "you think I don't regret it?"

"Do you?" he asks, matching her acerbity, "regret it?"

Tears run down her face, she no longer cares, "yes."

When he says her name, the name she's neglected for so long, a shiver runs sharply down her spine.

 _Alexis_.

That name is for him; for him to shout in riots, to breathe in the humidity of the Spanish twilight, for him to form on his lips after asking her to marry him. That name she promised to him.

"Alexis."

She covers her face with her hands, "can't you leave me alone?" she pleads, "I just want to you to leave me alone, please."

"I don't care." _I'm never going to leave you again._

She sighs, a hint of a chuckle through her tears, "you're a bastard."

"Yes," he pulls her into his arms, her shoulders start to quake, and then the repressed sobs rake her body. He cradles her silently, stroking her dark tendrils and tightening their embrace till her weeping subsides, "tell me you never loved me," he murmurs.

"I hate you, Randall Brown," she murmurs back, her body seeking his warmth.

His fingers begin to trace her jawline and skim over her lips, "I _loved_ you."

Lix weaves hers with his, "I hated you," and she brings his knuckles to her cheekbone, "for such a long time."

He smiles as he caresses her face with his free hand and drips his head down to met hers finally, "there's a fine line between fury and desire, I tend to find."

And in the blissful moment before they kiss, he recognises the ring on the chain which hangs surreptitious around her neck. She's held on for twenty-two years, in spite of everything, she hadn't given up hope.

It has been a very long engagement.


End file.
